Ceremony
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Nothing would take her from him again. Not even himself and his own stupidity. Come hell or high water, they would be bound. Always, if he could manage it. Belle/Rumpel, one-shot.


**Ceremony **

**DISCLAIMER: OUaT isn't mine. Pity.**

**Belle/Rumpel**

**Many, many thanks to my lovely beta who tackled this while ill. She even suggested the wonderful title. OldRomantic keeps my rampant misspellings and grammatical mistakes under control while suggesting tasteful alterations and proper endings. She's a gem. 3**

**Hope you enjoy. Please review! **

Once she had been removed from that wretched place, he set about protecting Belle. Protecting her the only way he knew how; through deals. It was his single focus for weeks. A binding, a heavy bargain was called for in this instance, he concluded. Something constricting, yet delicate. Something powerful.

Nothing would take her from him again. Not even himself and his own stupidity. Come hell or high water, they would be bound. Always, if he could manage it.

The town was, naturally, outranged at the scandalous announcement. Appalled. Horrified. But it was to be expected, and he took it with a decent measure of grace. She, on the other hand, worried through the process. Being that she was young, this did not bother him. Feelings of apprehension on her part were entirely natural. Gentleman that he was, he listened to her quiet qualms, did the necessarily soothing conversations and caresses, before engulfing her slim figure in a squeeze. They would be alright. What they were planning was perfectly normal and legal, to boot. They had nothing to fear. He wouldn't let her worry, not one speck more.

After all, he'd already done enough hand-wringing and second guessing for both of them.

She took this well enough. He could feel her smile against his forehead. She shifted, silently asking a well-worn question. He loved it when she shyly consented to sit on his lap, though it left his bad leg tender and ran her fingers softly through his smooth caramel locks, pointedly ignoring the ever-increasing streaks of grey.

Yet another reason to go through with the binding. He'd be able to do this, always. Every day of his life.

Still, Storybrooke's reaction left his girl feeling misplaced, slightly shunned. Youth would always rebound, but he worked to cast aside considerations for the townsfolk. Even so, she couldn't live in the shadow of his home forever. She needed light. Friends. Society. Respect. Occupation.

Two months passed in no time. The date was set, all arrangements made from the location to the flora to the clothing. The only thing left was for the calendar to hit its mark, for the day to come. Gold heard impressed whispers every time he entered Granny's-well, the pawnbroker reasoned, if anyone was able to pull it together in such a short span of time, it would be him. When they were days from the event, he picked up his dry cleaning and accepted a stuttering "_congratulations_" from the stout woman behind the counter. Inclining his head, Gold accepted the words with much more than a simple "_thank you." _Try as they might, the town couldn't forget who he was, just as they couldn't resist loving the girl he was housing in his Painted-Lady.

She had been reintroduced into Storybrooke society a mere month ago. Belle tentatively accepted offers to meet the newly-shunned Mary Margaret (a harmless association, in his mind) and the sheriff, out of guilt, pity, kindness, or a combination thereof.

Gold was selflessly glad for her new companionship. It was healthy. Even if that meant she spent time away from him…no, he wasn't about to become an obsessively lovesick fool now.

Though he did not ask it of them, the two women quickly took it upon themselves to aid his girl in preparation for the event. Neither had experience, mind, but they did what they could between fittings and nervous hand-holdings. They were kind-Mary Margaret in her soft way, and Emma, rationally. Between the two women, he was comforted that his girl was being properly cared for. She was going to get the full, normal experience of the ritual.

When the morn came, they ate breakfast in companionable silence before Mary Margaret whisked his housemate away to the vintage flat across town. He pressed a quick kiss to her neck as Mary waited in the foyer. Without a word, she clung to him limply as though reluctant to leave, unwilling to part from his presence. It took a great deal of effort to convince himself to untangle their limbs. He allowed himself one more kiss, swift and chaste. She peeled away, and he watched them drift happily down the cracked walk, through the leaded rectangles of coloured glass that made up his front door.

While Belle had a small army of women (Emma and Mary Margaret were joined by Ashley, Ruby, and Granny), Gold prepared himself alone. He had no guest in attendance, save Boris, his general manservant who was serving as his best man. But Boris was, for the afternoon, picking up the cake and the rings. So it was that the pawnbroker would have to see fit to dress alone.

He nicked himself while shaving. "_Now that won't do…."_ But it was a relief to see spots of red speckling the sink. Still a man, then. He was concerned that the curse that separated them in the former world perhaps might have followed them here. He surely didn't deserve such pure, untainted happiness.

The cut was dabbed with a square of toilet paper. He moved on to milder thoughts.

They'd picked a secluded section of forest for the ceremony. It was, for the most part, her choice. "_Privacy," _she'd explained. He was silently proud. And then he was taken aback when she invited just over ten people to watch the proceedings. Belle batted her eyes and asked in a soft, pleading voice to please, please, and of course, he still couldn't bring himself to tell her that all her lash-fluttering was unnecessary; he was relatively powerless. Besides, it was a small detail, a trifle. She deserved more than ten people. But there were not more than ten trustworthy souls throughout the town.

Four o'clock came, and Boris shuffled Gold out to the car. The ride was long. He settled for counting breaths to keep from complete madness. Once there, Boris lead his employer through the fresh forest path. It wasn't a easy walk; both the rough terrain and his own apprehension compelled him a tightly grip the brass top of his cane.

And there they were-waiting in the cheap, fold-up wooden chairs borrowed from the church. The morose priest stood at the base of the honorable oak determined to be the makeshift alter. Gold did not particularly care for clergymen, especially after the scourging and flaying incident…but they were rather necessary in this particular sort of business. He was contented to stand Father Louis for the afternoon.

Whispers circulated through the crowd as the harp, played by the golden-haired Harmony Smith, emitted the opening notes to _Ava Maria._ Things were to begin. She was here.

His chest tightened, pressured mounting. Breath came unsteadily. He was too old for this-_far_ too old-and she too young and…and…well. The time had come. No turning back. Not that he ever wanted to, truly.

No father held her ivory arm as she began the steady walk over decaying leaves and fallen twigs. Tall and proud, Belle was alone save for Mary Margaret, who wore a minty, knee-length a-line gown, and held the long veil. Once Belle reached the oak, she turned back to her sole attendant. Mary Margaret seated herself by a composed Emma, bowing her head.

Though his face was impassive, the pawnbroker's mind jumped from detail to detail of his lover's appearance. The cream-coloured satin. The red rose bouquet, painfully cliché, but a small, sweet joke. The pearl teardrop hanging from her neck and resting against her breastbone. The sheer veil that allowed for just a hint of her blush, bright eyes, pert nose. How her hands shook.

_"I'd marry you a thousand times, I would…."_

Words were exchanged. He absorbed them all, but it was clear his darling girl was far too focused on maintaining a tight grip on him. In the background the harp changed melodies to a very traditional Celtic number. Belle closed her eyes, exhaling carefully, then inhaling. When the priest stepped away to declare them, the small collection applauded, Most smiled, few maintained expressions of bland calm. They ignored all, however, having eyes only for each other. Cliché again, but perfectly true.

It was done. Finally. _Finally. _

There was the traditional cake of white icing, and gifts, afterwards. The presents were small things-picture frames, candles, cookbooks, the like. What could one get the richest fellow in town, after all?

Later, when the car approached their-_their-_drive, he stopped her from exiting the vehicle until he could open her door, then lead her, arm-in-arm, up the walkway to the door. He halted just before the threshold. There they stood, staring at the stained glass, marveling at the wood quality. Well, that was Belle's occupation, to stare at the entrance to the Painted Lady, appreciate the craftsmanship. He had other matters on his mind.

"We'll have to break tradition here, I'm afraid. I won't be able to carry you across," He said quietly.

Belle blinked. "Oh. Dreadful tradition, anyways. I'd rather just take your arm. As…equals. Or I could carry you?"

While he had no doubt she very well could lift him, he shook his head, lips twisting merrily. "Kind of you to offer, but I'm more inclined to share arms."

"Very well." Her eyes sparkled with a brand new life. "That sounds delightfully…_us."_

"Us." He loved the sound of it.

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